


And We Are The Monsters

by DoreyG



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, The Tempest - Shakespeare
Genre: Again sort of, Also pre-canon for The Tempest, Alternate Universe - Space, Canon past attempted non-con, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Depression, F/M, Fraught family relationships, Gen, Henry dislikes De Vere a great deal, I'm sorry De Vere! You're actually rather lovely!, M/M, Magic, Mental Illness, Mid-Canon, Mixture of play and history canon, Prospero's island being a strange place, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...All was dreaming, even if he was awake. For the absence of anything better to do he rose to his feet and set off into the timeless place yet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Are The Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gehayi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/gifts).



i.

The storm came out of nowhere, that's how he remembers it later. A clear voyage, with pure black stretching out ahead of him and nothing on the monitors, suddenly changed into a chaotic one, with the darkest space flashing violent colours and everything shorting out before he could do more than give a terrified blink. A miracle.

...A nightmare.

He remembers the juddering of the console, the wild sparks and screeching voice of his computer reporting a thousand errors. He remembers being thrown from his chair, sprawling down on the cold metal floor with the air shooting out of his lungs and the sting of bruises newly blossoming into life.

He remembers the view through the window, the violent colours getting more chaotic by the second. Vivid blue, angry red, neon green, a thousand flashing flickers beyond that going so fast that the only thing he could do was close his eyes and pray for the nausea to fade. The last colour he could successfully identify was an unsettling violet, a shade that made him simultaneously terrified and puzzled, beyond that there was only the vaguest glow through his eyelids.

He remembers the sudden, _horrifying_ , feeling of everything shutting down ever so quickly. The sparking of the console, the screaming of the computer, even the defensive judder of the hull. He remembers the hang, the long stretch just before the drop when the air choked in his throat and the universe seemed to pause around him. He remembers the life support, trying to bring on its back-up with a whine so disturbing that he would've yelled at the top of his lungs if they'd had any breath in them.

...But beyond that he remembers little, apart from the instinctive reaction of "oh" as his ship finally gave up and swiftly started to plummet from the heart of the storm.

He thinks that he thought of Mary, her face so kind even in her dying days.

He thinks that he thought of _Richard_.

He still can’t remember if they were comforting, mid-drop.

 

\--

 

ii.

He was rather surprised to wake up after the storm, with fresh air filling his lungs and life pounding in his chest.

He sat up almost immediately, and immediately regretted the decision after that. There was a slow pound in his skull, a growing roll in his stomach that ached if he moved and only got worse if he stayed still. He felt awful, like he'd drunk a thousand less than advisable drinks in a grotty spaceport before staggering to pass out in an alley.

His ship was a wreck around him, what had been previously gleaming steel now reduced to a few hunks of metal. The main body arched up above him, a mere wreck of what it once had been. Various nuts and bolts littered the sand around him, stretching out in a vague trail. The console seemed to be lodged in a sandbank just a few metres ahead of him, a battered half-wing was being washed by the ocean just a few feet behind. Little else was to be seen.

But that was alright - for, almost as if to make up for it, far too _much_ of his body could be seen. When he'd sat up the movement had dislodged the last bit of cloth from his chest, had sent the previously padded material fluttering down into his lap. On close examination what had previously been around his legs was hardly in a better state, pristine black trousers now ruined and ripped and stained with sand. The shoes had been ripped from his feet, along with his socks. His only covering stretched from his waist to halfway down his thighs.

Which was a pity, really, because the weather on the planet had clearly not been kind to him. There were cuts up his legs, angry red things that stung when he gently reached down to probe them with a finger. Salt caked him liberally, and he even felt it on his tongue when he tried to clear his throat. His hair and beard felt like complete messes, and when he lifted his hands to comb through them he found tangles like he hadn't had since he'd been a little boy with his first stepmother tutting over him.

...He was still alive.

Barely.

He briefly wondered if Mary had felt like this, just before she'd succumbed, but quickly put the thought out of his head with the speed of long practice. Waited only a few more seconds before attempting a rise to his feet, swaying there for only a few seconds before tumbling back onto the sand in an undignified pile.

The surprise had faded, only to be replaced by the dull ache of continued living. All he could do was close his eyes against the double-sun in the sky above him and groan softly against the heat. 

\--

 

iii.

He awoke, again surprised, to a slightly painful sensation emanating from his now bare foot. Like it was being poked with something ragged and not too hygienic.

He groaned at the sensation, tried to move his foot away... And was even more surprised when it caught on something. Waited a long few moments before trying to move it again, giving it a proper _yank_ only to find that it'd got little further.

...Huh.

He forced open his eyes, wincing at the glint of two afternoon suns in them. Attempted a full sit this time, breathing through his nose to ward off the inevitable sensation of nausea. It'd return again, it always did with this sort of sensation. You could think you were perfectly fine until half an hour after the fact, and then end up doubled in a toilet and trying not to disturb the shipmen just outside...

The nausea returned a lot quicker than he expected it to, along with the rather sudden urge to escape and the feeling in his legs.

The creature that had caught him had the vague shape of a man, but that was only discernible after some squinting. It was as ugly as sin, with dirt ground into its every part from forehead down to ankles. Its skin seemed to be peeling from its body, burns like a radiation victim giving off a sickly scent and changing the thing's shape entirely. Its only covering was a ragged strip of cloth across its waist, and even that wasn't enough to conceal that it was apparently a male.

They regarded each other for a long few seconds, him trembling. He briefly entertained the thought that he was looking into a mirror... But no, he'd been bad earlier but he hadn't been that out of it. There was no such object on the beach, or even the planet.

...Which meant that the thing was real.

"Hello," he managed eventually, weighed down by that knowledge. He was aware of aliens of course, a good deal of Richard's favourites were aliens, but none had ever quite struck a chord of bone-deep revulsion like this one, "do you live here?"

The creature- Okay, he had to ask its name soon, only remained silent. Staring at him with eyes as dark as sin. And not the kind that Richard dabbled in as a game, no - the worst kind, the kind that made the hair prickle up on his arms and the bile rise in his throat.

"What's your name?" He still tried again. He'd always prided himself on being reasonable, after all, on never backing down due to a silly little sensation screaming in his belly, "I'm Henry. Henry Bolingbroke, cousin of the emperor of the Plantagenet system. Have you... Have you heard of it...?"

The creature only continued to remain silent, in a bestial crouch. Its only response was to creep a little closer, and then stop with its head slightly tilted. In the movement it reminded him briefly of Richard's favourites yet again - Green with his hungry eyes, Bushy with his grasping hands, Bagot with his way of slithering and twisting so smoothly-

"I am Caliban," but, no, the creature was far worse than any of them. Far more threatening, as he finally forced himself to his feet and took a few staggering steps back, "the true king of this place. Help me kill my master, or I will eat you alive."

...He didn't wait for any more. Only turned on his heel as swiftly as he could, stumbled quickly towards the trees with the imagined breath of the creature - _Caliban_ \- hot on the back of his neck every step of the way.

He did not feel quite awake, as he did so. The planet seemed more and more like a dream with every breath he took.

 

\--

 

iv.

He finally came to a halt about an hour later, by his confused reckoning of time without a single clock to certify him. The dreamlike feeling hadn't gone away, not in all the time that he'd ran then jogged then slowly walked.

...He wasn't even sure if he was awake.

He took in a deep breath, and then another. Took a few more steps forward and then slumped down on a tree stump. The edges were ragged, he could feel the rough bark cutting into the bare skin of his legs. From this position he could finally see his feet - they were dirty and bloody, covered in mud and little cuts that he hadn't even felt in the intensity of his escape.

He sighed. Groaned. Dropped his head into his hands and allowed it to remain there.

As a child he'd have loved this sort of adventure. His father's estate had been a big one, and in his early years (with his father off ensuring galactic domination for his slowly dying grandfather) he had largely had a free run of it. He remembered, with a slight tinge of sadness, how Mary had visited often. How they'd ran through the garden, lush enough to be the Garden of Eden in the holy texts from the old times, and played under the trees and laughed and laughed with the sunlight hot on their backs.

But Mary was dead now.

And this was less a Garden of Eden, and more a garden of nightmares. A rough, chaotic, deadly place that would happily eat him up and spit his bones out to rot.

He thought on this for a while, and then slowly raised his head from his hands and glanced around again. He was surprised to find that his cheeks were damp, tears having made trails in the dirt without him even noticing. He hadn't cried for a while, even when he'd wanted to - his father had disapproved of crying on principle, and he could avoid being a disappointment there even if he couldn't help it everywhere else.

(Hah, he guessed that he was a disappointment in all ways after all.)

He stared at nothing for a long few seconds, cheeks damp, in despair. The world of nightmares remained vaguely threatening around him, he still wasn't sure if he was awake.

...Until something changed, something twitched just a little. He had a sense of being watched, and glanced up to counter it with a sharpness that made his neck ache down to the bone.

There was a _man_ in the tree above - a sort of man, painted in shades of violet and with feathers on his feet and chest. It was most definitely watching him, with a fascination that bordered on the terrifying. Its eyes were dark and wide, its manner was somehow inhuman. It was an enigma in the shape of a person, and he was _fascinated_.

And then he blinked, and the thing _changed_. Instead of a feathered man there was an actual bird. A big thing, a beautiful thing. Still in shades of violet, it sat on exactly the same branch and kept watching him. Not like he was a threat, not like he was something fascinating - but just like he was a thing, an unexpected variable in the turning of life.

...He blinked again. And now there was just a violet light, hovering over the branch and making his eyes blur at the sheer strangeness of it. It made him feel dizzy, faint, like he was about to lapse back into dreaming or waking at any moment-

And then, all of a sudden, it dropped. Plummeted right down the tree, levelling out just before it slammed into the ground. It paused for a second, as if to make sure that he was watching, and then disappeared into the undergrowth. Not even a rustle attending it as it faded away.

He stared after it, for a long and puzzled second.

...All was dreaming, even if he was awake. For the absence of anything better to do he rose to his feet and set off into the timeless place yet again.

 

\--

 

v.

He followed the violet light for hours, if not longer. The chase of it was a haze, a continuation of the strange dreaming state that had settled over him. It was in between, twilight, dawn. It was the moment just before waking, where everything seems strange and terrifying and yet you must go on no matter what.

As a result, it was yet another shock when the violet disappeared and he stopped. On the ball of his foot, still swaying between states like a thing insane.

He was in a clearing, an odd parting of the trees made even odder by the fact that he'd been walking alone through thick forest for the past few hours (days and years). He wasn't sure if it was the fog or just the daze of his eyes, but an oddly hazy light seemed to hang over the space. He was alone, but not alone. His exposed skin seemed to prickle with anticipation, there was an odd catching sensation in his lungs like something was about to happen.

He glanced slowly across the clearing, to where the violet had disappeared.

...He was not alone.

A girl stood there, barely more than a child. Her hair was curly around her shoulders and she wore an expression of confused innocence. She was dressed in strange clothes - not the standard imperial uniform, or even the dull orange suit that the heavier industrial workers wore, but an odd ensemble that seemed to be partially made of leaves. The whole effect created was one of wildness, she looked like a creature reared by wolves and then stolen away by the spirits that lived in the trees.

Not that he believed in such spirits, for they were old myths and stupid ones besides, but...

The girl blinked at him, advanced a few steps. When he didn't turn to flee immediately she advanced a few more, in much the manner that he'd seen galactic traders approaching their beasts on busy market days, "what are you?"

The manner, and the question besides, shocked him so much that he had to stand still for a long few seconds. The first words to spill out of his mouth, due to such a profound shock, could only be: "hi."

"Hell... O?" She pronounced the word like another question, with an honest sort of confusion showing on her face. The impression that she was a wild thing forced into a human form came strongly to him again. A spirit, or a nymph, or maybe just a figment of his dreams - for nobody behaved like that in the waking world, not even Richard with the whimsical turns of his mood, "what are you?"

He could only stare at her for a long few moments in response, bewildered and terrified in equal measure. The universe should have been divided into logical lines, even this world of nightmares should have had some sense behind it. Such wildness had no logical lines, such a girl made no sense-

"Henry Bolingbroke," his bewilderment was such that his usual spiel came out almost automatically, stuttering from his tongue. He repeated it to the strange beast Caliban, he almost tried to repeat it to the violet creature, he will repeat it to the girl. He will probably spend the rest of this terribly confusing nightmare reciting it, over and over again until his tongue dries to ash, "cousin of the emperor of the Plantagenet system, son of the former defence minister of the Plantagenet system-"

"A Henry," he was almost relieved when the girl interrupted him, with an innocent look in her eye and a slight tilt of her head "...Is that what you all are called? Henries?"

...He came to a halt, on the heels of the relief. Slowly tilted his own head, probably mimicked her expression with a lot less innocence.

"My name is Henry, yes," it was a long while before he could speak again. He blamed the confusion, slowly easing back from his state of near panic but still waiting in the wings for the very next moment, "I suppose that it's a fairly common name. Do you know more than one?"

"Oh, yes!" And the girl... Actually _laughed_. A sound almost like a honest to goodness bell, drifting up through the air and almost seeming to make the mist clear a little with the loudness of its sound, "well, only one other than you. I know my father, you see, and I suppose that he must be a very fine Henry indeed."

He blinked a little, wondered if the stunned feeling would ever fade away completely. A thousand questions still seemed determined to spring to his tongue, and he could only spit out one at a time, "your father is called Henry?"

"Prospero," the girl corrected him, her laughter faded to a soft frown. Even then she didn't look truly angry - more confused, the gentle shifting of the sky just before it rains, "but he is the same as you, so he must be a Henry too. An entirely different species that he never told me of in his lessons. I must scold him the next time that he tries to nag me on my verbs."

He kept blinking, slowly.

...And finally worked himself up to words, confused things that tumbled just as coherently as the rest of his babble, "not all of our 'species' are called Henry, ma'am. We are humans. Or, to be more specific as I think you are being, men. Who are of the same species as you, and similar in many ways."

Unless you were Richard, of course, who was similar to nobody and might’ve been a species entirely of his own.

"Oh," but there was no time to dwell on that. For the girl before him was continuing, blinking briefly as if to process the information and then smiling defiantly yet again, "well, he did not tell me that either. Thank you for being more informative than my father in all ways, Mr. Men."

"Man is the singular," he corrected absently, and then winced a little at his choice of correction. The dream persisted, the sensation of oncoming insanity remained in much the same way "...And my _name_ is Henry, much as your father's name is Prospero, so you really may call me that. Just as I may call you-?"

"Miranda," the girl gave easily yet again, and allowed her smile to grow even wider - it was an astonishing sight. Not because he was attracted to her, she looked about the same age as his son and he'd never really inherited the family urge to spoil innocent things, but because he hadn't seen such positivity in years. He lived in a world of grey and black, a universe of ash that rarely admitted such bright colour, "would you like to meet him, Mr Henry?"

Confused for a second, and slightly dulled by the revelation of living, he took a while to understand the question. He could see her biting back laughter, gnawing at the side of her mouth in a way so obvious that it was oddly charming, "meet who, Miss Miranda?"

"Why," when he asked that she even laughed out loud, reached out to take his hand and hold it in an entirely unashamed sort of way, "my father, of course! Prospero, the true lord of this world and the most powerful magician that the universe has ever seen."

Still confused, he didn't even bother to dismiss the second part as complete nonsense. Instead he only kept staring at her, took a step forward at her insistent tugging but remained largely stationary in both the physical and the mental sense, "I've already heard one creature say such a thing today, forgive me if I'm not quick to believe that."

But Miranda only winced, just slightly, and tugged him from his stationary state with a strength that would've surprised him in any other dream, "Caliban will tell his lies, you must start believing truths."

...Believing truths.

He broke his state and followed her after a while - ever onwards, much like the violet light that'd lured him through hours and days and months and years.

 

\--

 

vi.

The man seemed as old as the dirt beneath his feet, that's how he remembers it later. Slightly portly, tanned, with a grey beard and a staff in his hands and an odd sort of robe wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes had been narrow, as they'd exchanged their first glance - he'd been taking him in with a suspicion that chilled the skin.

"Miranda," he remembers the man's first words being, waving at his daughter in a way that was fond but accustomed to being obeyed, "get back to your lessons, and leave us be."

"But father-!"

" _Go_."

He remembers the girl slinking out, with a sulky glance designed to garner sympathy in his general direction. He remembers sliding awkwardly onto a wooden stall, the roughest thing that he'd ever sat himself on, giving an awkward cough and shrinking into himself as Prospero's eyes had immediately shot back to him.

They'd regarded each other for a long few moments more. Silently, both thinking deep thoughts.

"I already know your name, rank and relationship to a certain emperor so we can dispose of the pleasantries," he remembers the man deciding suddenly after a long few minutes had passed, leaning back on his own slightly more comfortable chair and stroking his beard, "why are you here?"

He also remembers blinking again, in a stunned way. Fighting the urge to steep roughly forward and lay his head in his hands, "how can you possibly know any of that? I didn't hear your daughter say a word, how, by the seven stars-?"

"I will consider giving you an opportunity to ask your own questions after I am done asking mine, that must be enough for you," but the man had only bared his filthy teeth in response, a movement that'd made him look even more ancient and even more terrifying, "why are you _here_?"

He remembers taking in a deep breath, a puzzled one. He remembers taking in half of another one, spotting Prospero's growing impatience and deciding not to try his luck.

"My ship ran into a storm, just above your planet," he cleared his throat awkwardly instead, forged on. Prospero eased a little, and so he still regards it as a sensible decision, "I tried my best to get out of it, but she started to break up and I blacked out before I could do anything. The rest is a mystery to me."

He remembers Prospero regarding him, in a mildly thoughtful way. He remembers the man leaning back again, lowering his lips over his teeth and stroking his beard briefly "...Up until you woke up on my beach."

"Even after that," he remembers replying before he properly thought it through, and then blushing bright scarlet - a shade that'd made him feel even more lit up than one of the trees Mary had always insisted upon keeping in their apartment around the festive season "...Sorry, I think that I might have a mild concussion. I shouldn't have said that, to imply that you aren't real is the height of rudeness."

"I've heard worse," but he also remembers Prospero offering that, not in a friendly manner, but... In a way hard to describe, not quite relaxed but also not fully tensed, "certainly from men who feel like they're in a nightmare."

He remained silent, clutching confusedly at straws in his memory.

"Don't ask me how I know, this island has a way of doing that to people," Prospero had only chuckled, lowly. Had maintained his leant back position for a long few moments before shrugging, rising to his feet and resting casually on his staff, "it is a curse, but a blessing above that. It keeps me safe."

He remembers blinking again, thrust into even more of a daze by Prospero's seemingly simple words.

"From things that shouldn't do me harm," blinking, and blinking, and blinking... And suddenly seeing, Prospero standing right in front of him with dark eyes and the staff clutched and glowing in his hands, "your name is Henry Bolingbroke, son of John. Your father was the most hated man in the galaxy before he died, even by his family. You had a wife called Mary, but she died long ago in a way that you even now struggle to understand. You haven't moved on from her, but you're still in love with somebody that you shouldn't be. And-"

He remembers taking in a deep breath, and swaying in the dark. Practically hyperventilating. The only sound had been that of his breath, he'd thought that he'd caught a glimpse of lavender out of the corner of his eye.

"You shouldn't do me harm," Prospero had sounded faintly disappointed, for some reason, as he'd slumped limply off his chair. The darkness had surged in again as his footsteps had faded slowly away, "you may stay, Henry Bolingbroke, for now. Until I find that what you hide even from yourself."

The dirt had seemed as old as the man at his head. He remembers nothing but the further fall.

 

\--

 

vii.

He was surprised yet again when he awoke, but in a way that was starting to be tinted by resignation at the edges. Somehow he had the feeling that his life would always be like this, an endless awakening into another nightmare with no sort of end waiting for him.

He was lying on a pallet of straw, something that his brain vaguely registered as a bed after a few confused moments of processing. There was a bowl of soup besides him, a jug of water next to it that looked more like heaven than anything he'd ever seen. He lunged for them so quickly that he almost sent them spinning across the floor, devoured them so fast that he only noticed the note pinned between them when he was done licking the final droplets of soup from his fingers.

"You may stay, Henry Bolingbroke, but nothing is free in life. Work as hard as you can, we will see if you can remain after."

He stared at it for a long few moments in confusion, his brain still trying to restart. He bit his lip. He tilted his head...

He'd never really worked before, but he supposed that it was time to try. He staggered slowly to his feet, glanced carefully around the room - there was a pile of clean, oddly green clothes piled on a stool nearby. He went to them immediately.

On the first day he took a quick lay of the land and decided that the garden needed the most attention. He'd always loved gardens, childhood memories blossoming to adult ones as Mary had insisted on always keeping at least a small box of dirt with them no matter where they'd moved. Miranda or Prospero had obviously tried with their patch of land, but it was still overgrown and terrifying in how gnarled it was. He bent to it the moment that he assessed this, started to clear the weeds in the best way that he knew how.

By the end of the day he was tired, weary. Miranda and Prospero returned, made startled and grudgingly impressed comments over his work. He only grunted, slumped back on his pallet and fell into a deeper level of dreaming.

On the second day he continued with his work, until the garden was almost entirely cleared of weeds. This accomplished, he sat back on his heels and swiped the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. He only crouched there for a few minutes before rising to his feet, heading back into the hut in search of something that he couldn't quite name. Mary had never been done with her garden, she had always been flowering around and chirping and doing everything that she could with the means that she had. He was determined to do the same.

He found some alright looking seeds after about an hour of searching, but by that time he'd remembered the vital part of soil preparation and the sun was already dropping. That night he was grumpy, little in the mood for talking with either Miranda or Prospero. They let him be, he soon slumped on his pallet again and revisited that land of deeper dreaming.

On the third day he made a list, a habit that he'd always been fond of no matter how much those he loved mocked him for it, and only proceeded when he was sure that he had everything in order. His business of the day was to prepare the soil, make sure that it was fully suited for life. To do this he did everything that he remembered Mary doing - turning the soil, making sure that it was properly free of weeds, making sure that it was as free as it could be of pests. It was the first time that he'd properly missed his books, his big library tucked away in a secluded corner of his flat...

Still, he did his job as best as he could. By the time that Miranda and Prospero returned he was weary, but a touch happier with that weariness. He made casual conversation with Miranda as they ate their mysteriously appeared dinner, and even managed to coax a few words from Prospero besides. By the time that he settled down on his pallet for the daily deeper dreaming he was even happier, happier and-

On the fourth day he awoke from his first proper night terror on the island, an unsettling thing that left him gasping and covered in sweat. He couldn't remember the full shape of it, and that was one of the most unsettling things. All he could think of was a sensation of darkness, a pressing bit of death, a sort of guilt that'd held his body hostage with a soft whisper... And that was enough. Miranda was still sleeping, making soft noises from her bed across the room. Prospero was between them, but he was as still as the grave and so he could not tell a thing from his solemn form. All he could do was shoot to his feet, grab his seeds and disappear to his garden as fast as possible. He could still create new life, after all.

...He spent all day out in the garden, frenziedly planting. He either missed Miranda and Prospero, or they didn't come back at all. By the time that he finally returned to the hut he knew that he was drawn, a pale white shape dragged back from the spectre of happiness. He was silent over dinner. When it came to the time of deeper dreaming that silence had transformed into dread.

On the fifth day he woke up naturally - and, perhaps influenced by the surprise of that, promptly decided that he'd been spending too much time indoors. He'd never been as much of a roamer as some of his uncles, but he'd still always had a slight yearning for the open air and the world beyond four simple walls. The garden would be fine without him for a day, he had already done enough. This decided, he quickly jumped to his feet and came up with the ruse of fruit collecting if anybody asked. He was out of the door like a shot, and did not return until several hours later - weary and tired and clutching that covering fruit in his hands.

He was somewhat perturbed to see green shoots steadily clambering out of the ground when he returned, but had always really relied on Mary's knowledge of gardens and so assumed that it was normal. He did feel a little better after his walk, his brief taste of freedom. He still felt a little dread at the deeper dreaming, but it no longer felt like such a threat.

On the sixth day it still didn't seem like such a threat, when he awoke from the deeper dreaming with no terror and dappled sunlight across his face. He yawned, smiled to himself, rose to his feet and bounced a little on his toes. He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself, but he was sure that he'd find some sort of work. Maybe he'd go back to the beach and attempt to clear it, maybe he'd find some wood, maybe he'd even clamber up on the roof and...

He stepped outside, and was immediately dismayed to find himself in a mini-forest. The plants that he'd seeded just a few days ago were already up to his knees and looking prepared to grow higher. The only thing he could do was drop all his plans, hurry back into the house for some protective gear and start harvesting as quickly as possible. By the end of the day he was too tired to feel any sort of dread, any sort of anything. He wasn't even sure if he was plunging into deeper dreaming, it felt more like walking into another room.

On the seventh day he awoke early, got to his feet and peered out of the window before he dared to spring outside. Green was already, impossibly, showing through the soil again. Pushing it aside, growing and growing like a nightmare. Even Mary's sheltering of him couldn't convince him that it was normal, that it was anything other than the state of deeper dreaming that he'd been so terrified of. 

He would always feel dread.

This would always be his life now.

...And he could only manage a hopeless wish that Mary was here, that she had never left him, that she would one day waltz in through the door and smile and pick up the twisted pieces of what his life had become.

 

\--

 

viii.

On the eighth day Caliban came to him again, when he was sitting near his wreck on the beach with his head in his hands.

He could sense the creature from the moment that he arrived, a certain sense of wrongness creeping over his skin, but neither of them seemed in a hurry to communicate. For a long while they just _remained_ \- both in silence, both breathing silently as they waited. He thought of a thousand things in the gap, he wondered if Caliban thought of just as many.

And then, suddenly, the creature cleared its throat and started to speak again: "help me kill my master, or-"

"I would almost welcome death," he interrupted, in a weary tone, and listened as Caliban drew in a sharp breath and fell silent. He noted it to be an instinctive reaction, in the back of his mind - a creature used to being interrupted every time it opened its mouth, "a strange thing to say, isn't it? But a true one. The state of this planet makes me want to plunge into something final."

There was a long pause. The silence became practically oppressive in it, a living thing that pressed against his chest and tried to restrict his breathing.

He lifted his head. Caliban crept a step closer to him, lowered into a crouch that was still threatening but oddly... Less so, like he'd somehow developed in the slightly-more-than-a-week since they'd encountered each other last, "help me kill my master." 

"Is that the only thing you can say?" He asked wryly, and gave Caliban a proper look over. Fetid, rotting - he'd grown a little, but to glance too close would still be a mistake, "no. I refuse your demand."

"Kill my master-!" Caliban _roared_... And then swiftly settled back into his crouch when his tone drew barely a blink. The terror had definitely passed, the same old dullness that he'd felt on and off for most of his life had returned with a vengeance, "why will you not?"

"Because, from what I've seen, he doesn't quite deserve it," he answered wearily, too used to it by now. This island sapped him, brought out the worst in him. He'd thought that he was almost over his latest bout, but... "And he seems as old as dirt, so would be very hard to kill. And he seems a part of this nightmarish land, so would be even harder. And-"

Caliban made a whining noise, less of a demand and more of a plea. He recognized it, he'd made enough pleas in his life.

"-I only want that certain darkness for myself," too many pleas, and had seen too many negative answers. So many that he'd become accustomed to them, had absorbed them into himself so he was as hard as stone and diamonds and the edge of Richard's tongue when he told him to leave, "does that satisfy you, Caliban?"

" _Never_ ," it was odd, how he felt almost like he'd found a kindred spirit in the beast besides him. Unsettling, almost. Truthful, in a way that he didn't quite want to examine, "he deserves it, he deserves it more than any other. I am the true king of this place. He stole it from me, defiled it, made me a _slave_ -"

"Perhaps he is deserving, then," he interrupted again, still not examining that truthful truth too closely. The dullness was far too familiar, but familiar meant safe. He could retreat from everything within it, "but I still will not do it."

"But he is not that old!" Caliban cried out, recognizing the retreat and arching up on his heels to try and catch it. If only that old dullness could be caught so easy, if only dreams could be shattered with a bounce and a grab, "my mother was older, and more powerful, and she- ...She-"

"Perhaps he is younger than certain things, and older than others," he interrupted yet again, slightly more of a gesture of mercy this time. Even through the dullness he understood the flash of grief, the look of a thing that'd lost something beloved. It was the sire of dullness, after all, and a child always had to recognize its father even when it desired nothing less, "but I still will not do it."

"But he is not even a part of the land!" Caliban recovered quickly, at least. Or shoved down the pain to a vault that could not be reached so easily. It was hard to tell which one, really. He'd never been that good at telling - not with his father, not with Richard, not even with himself, " _I_ am more of the land than he is, as I said! Or, if not me, the spirits! Or even Ariel, as wind-dumb a creature as he is-!"

"Perhaps he is only an invader, then. A crusader who chose to ravage a tiny planet instead of a wide system," he interrupted again and again, not even sure if it was another gesture of mercy or a customary attempt to stab himself in the foot, "but I still will not do it."

"But-!" Caliban settled a little, stared at him mulishly. He saw Richard's favourites in his eyes again briefly, a troupe of sneers. But, beyond that, he saw Richard himself - the sulky sort of desperation that sometimes lurked deep in his expressions. And, beyond even that, he saw _himself_ , "you do not want the certain darkness only for yourself."

...He saw himself.

He remained silent this time, refusing to interrupt. His tongue was held, he could feel the nightmare threatening at the edges again.

"I know you," Caliban continued, emboldened by his inability to move - shuffling closer, as if he smelled the scent of fresh prey upon the air, "I see you in your own eyes. You do not want it only for yourself, you want it for somebody else too. Somebody that you hate and love, like all hate their masters."

He remained silent-

"Somebody..."

He stood up, brusquely, and turned away. The dreams beckoned, and he felt like he could not avoid them. He took one step back towards the forest, two. The dreams surged up and whispered like they wanted to drag him home.

"Help me kill my master!" Caliban yelled after him, taking a few staggering steps in the stand... And then stopping, sinking properly down. Desperation writ in every line of his body, eyes wide and pained as he briefly glanced back, "please, please help."  
"Everybody makes their plea" ...He meant to, but he found himself speaking instead. Dreamy words that would just not stop dripping from his mouth, "but nobody is heard. That is the way of the nightmare, I'm afraid."

On the eighth day he left Caliban in the sand, strode back into fitful dreaming with whimpering cries echoing after him.

 

\--

 

ix.

He arrived back at the hut very soon after the encounter, with the breath whimpering in his lungs and several cuts from brambles creeping up his legs. For some reason he was exhausted, a bone deep sensation that made him want to seek the next room version of dreaming no matter how unwise it was. 

He didn't dare look at the garden, as he staggered to the hut and laid his forehead against the grainy wood. It didn't seem conducive to his sanity, somehow.

He'd never been the most 'stable' of people, he supposed that he'd known that for a while. It'd been alright before Mary went, of course, because Mary could always soothe him down, but afterwards... He was getting worse. _It_ was getting worse. The anxiety, the dullness, the knowledge of the line between dreaming and reality that was so very important.

...That was so quickly fading away.

He groaned, ground his head miserably into the rough wood and wondered only briefly if he was inviting splinters.

He sighed, eventually, turned away from the hut and slumped with his back to it - took in a spot a little above the nightmarish garden with that dull ache starting to spread deeper and deeper into him.

He _sobbed_ -

And it took him a while to notice the violet light, hovering just to the corner of his sight. Took him even longer to slowly turn his head to it, take it in with an amount of blinking that would've seemed unhealthy on any other planet.

It seemed to be studying him.

Well, fair enough, he was studying it. It was a light, and most certainly nothing more, but somehow he could almost trick himself into believing that there were other things within it. The shape of a strange man who wasn't really a man, for instance. The shape of a bird who wasn't really a bird. The shape of a thousand contradictions, all jammed into one corner of space.

He took in a deep breath, juddering and shuddering, and the violet light did not move. He straightened his legs, with some shaky effort, and the violet light did not move. He cleared his throat, choking back his threatening tears with long force of practice, and the violet light did not move.

"I'm not sure what's happening anymore," he informed it, quite casually. The words did not shake when they left his mouth, he was somewhat surprised but worse things had happened to him on most days of his life, "well, that's hardly new, but this planet seems to make it so much worse. So hard to deny."

"I think that the anxiety is getting worse. I've always had it, of course, but I haven't felt this bad for... Well, a while, everything tends to blur into one sometimes with this sort of thing. I haven't come out in my usual skin complaints, at least, but that's almost a symptom of the problem instead of a blessing - this place won't let my body do what it likes, and that _terrifies_ me."

"I _know_ that the dullness is getting worse too. Yet another thing that's always been there, but also yet another thing that has been made so much more awful. I can barely move under the weight of it, it pins me to the ground. I feel like screaming, I feel like crying, I feel like taking certain steps - but I can't. It's just an absence, a hollow hole at the core of me that's being made wider by the day."

"And I know, beyond all else, that I'm losing my grip on reality. This place has driven me to that, that lack of reality is its main achievement. I don't know if I close my eyes and wake-up, I don't know if I'm dreaming or waking at the moment, I don't know if I'm alive or dead. For all I know I could be drifting in the coldness of space, having a lengthy hallucination to take me away from my body shutting down - I would even _welcome_ that."

"...I would."

"I miss home. I never thought that I'd say that in such bare terms, but there it is. I miss home and everything about it. I miss my normal garden, my library, my apartment. I miss waking up to generated sunlight. I miss knowing what'll happen in the day and knowing that there'll be no surprises along the way."

"But most of all I miss the people, this time a thing I thought that I'd never ever _say_. I miss them more than I've ever missed anything before, a stone right at the bottom of my gut."

"I miss Richard's favourites, his minions. I hate them, and I'll still do whatever needs to be done, but at least they were a constant. They revolted me without complexities, unlike that poor beast you keep down on the beach. They were petty, shallow, dedicated to their own ends. They never changed, the sun could rise and set a thousand times and those three would still be there."

"I miss Aumerle. Technically a minion, but somehow more than that. I haven't thought of him for far too long, I'm afraid, and I regret that more than I can say. He was nice, Aumerle, he seemed to at least try to understand when I was at sea. He's my cousin too, you know, my younger one. He at least tried to stabilize me instead of shoving me out into the darkest depths."

"I miss my father. Yet another person that I haven't thought of in far too long, he'd disapprove vehemently of that. He's dead, you know, possibly like me and certainly like other people I know. I'm still not sure if I can mourn him, and isn't that odd? I didn't mourn him when I first heard, I didn't mourn him through the preparations to leave, I didn't even mourn him when I was in my ship and leaving. I want to mourn him... But we never get what we want, do we?"

"I miss my children. And at least I've thought about them, if only briefly. Hal would be about Miranda's age now, and a mouthier boy you've never encountered. Tom, always overlooked more than he should be. John, more like me than he really should be. Humphrey, always with his nose in my books. Pippa, growing older and more deserving of an escort by the day. And little Blanche, always searching for her perfect unicorn. You've never had children, I can tell, but it hurts to be away from them when I think about it. Perhaps that's why I don't think about them that much, because I couldn't bear the dullness to leech that pain away from me too."

"I miss Richard, and that's probably the oddest thing I've said yet. I hated the man sometimes, with a passion that bordered on the unhealthy. He took my lands away, he sent me across the universe, he practically hammered the final nail into my father's coffin. And yet... You can't help love, no matter how hard you try. He's my cousin. He's my king. He's somehow more than that, in a way that I couldn't place even if I tried for the rest of eternity."

"I miss Mary most of all, though. _Mary_. I wish that she was here, to smile at me and hold me and tell me that everything will be okay. I wish that she was alive. I _wish_ -"

He came to a halt, tears trying to threaten yet again. He knew that they wouldn't come, it wasn't really his way anymore. He was left in the land of dry sobs, of pained gasps and not a single bit of anything else.

He raised his head after a while, regarded the violet light as calmly as he could. It still hadn't changed. It was still hovering there, solemnly, and examining him without a twitch.

"I miss things that you could never understand, because I don't understand them myself," he told it gently, and took a step away from the hut as he blinked back his tears. Perhaps he would go and find wood. It was better to at least try, after all, "thank you for listening, it's been a great help."

He arrived back many hours later, carrying wood in his arms, and wasn't surprised to find that his exhaustion had gotten worse. The violet light was gone, when he returned. He spent a little energy on feeling relieved, and then simply coiled up into sleep and went into that other room.

 

\--

 

x.

Miranda was sitting by his feet when he awoke the next morning, her chin in her hands and her eyes wide and concerned as she took him in.

"Ah!" He yelped, leaping back in a struggle of limbs and paltry blankets before calming himself. He was too used to life near his cousin, the creeping secrecy and constant guardedness that was needed. He doubted that Miranda could hurt him - he doubted if Miranda could hurt a fly, to be honest "...I wasn't expecting you."

Despite his doubts, she still continued to study him, Wide-eyed, worried in a way that couldn't be denied, "you're not happy."

He was so shocked for a moment that his mouth flapped slowly around silence, left him gawping and stuttering instead of spitting words. It took him a moment beyond that to recover, "well, not _entirely_. But if a person awakes to find somebody hovering over them then you can't usually expect-"

"No," she interrupted him smoothly, both the shock and the babble. Fell back to watching him with those eyes until he finally stilled and silenced yet again, "I _meant_ that you aren't happy in general."

He was so shocked this time that he remained silent, fell to simply watching her in return - probably just as wide eyed, but feeling a little more raw.

There was silence from both ends for a long few moments as she fell to taking him in again in return. He felt that he was being assessed, in some odd way that he'd only experienced at the hands of Richard before "...Why?"

What a big question, bigger than worlds and galaxies and even universes. It wasn't simple to give an answer as to why you weren't happy, in fact it was the most difficult thing in existence. He should've been happy, by most accepted measures, and yet... The fact that he couldn't be was obvious, and that fact made the lack of happiness even worse by the simple fact of existing.

...In the end the only thing that came out was a weak, "I don't belong here, Miranda." He supposed that it was for the best, really.

"You don't belong here?" A brief wrinkling of the forehead was better than a universe beyond the universe falling on top of you, after all. Miranda was still young, so young - perhaps he could lie to himself, believe that if he didn't tell her she would never learn, "how? Here is the only place you could belong, isn't it?"

"I'm not like you," perhaps he could lie to himself. He'd done it before, after all. It'd never ended well - but, then, maybe that was more due to the influence of his father and his children and Richard than anything else, "I wasn't born here, I didn't come here when I was too young to know any better. I have a life out there, responsibilities, a family of my very own. I have things to _do_."

"You have things to do here!" Miranda sounded petulant now, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout. The lies grew between them as easily as they'd grown between Richard and his galaxy, he tried not to think about the comparison too much, "and we could be your family, and we could give you responsibilities, and-"

"I don't agree with this place," he corrected her gently, plunged into the land of not thinking - it would swallow him like the darkness of space, and then he could drown. He was good at drowning, he'd practically trained in it since the moment he'd taken his first wailing breath, "as I said, Miranda, I'm not like you and I really don't belong. I'm a creature of logic, I'm stuck so stubbornly in my ways that I'll probably never be able to move again. I'm not suited to this magic, this confusion, this slowly seeping insanity that keeps creeping into my head."

And Miranda scowled. And Miranda frowned. And Miranda _thought_...

Miranda turned to him, her forehead still set in a puzzled wrinkle but her eyes desperately trying to understand. She was a smart girl, he was ashamed to discover that he approved of her more than his own son.

(She was too smart, he wasn't surprised to discover that he wanted her to stay on this planet forever. To grow into her magical forest like a spirit, and never encounter the dark and tangled spirits of men and women and everything that breathed beyond.)

"Is that all?" She asked - and, when he nodded, set her mouth into a firm line and clambered to her feet, "I'll talk to father, see what can be done. I'll miss you, you know, but... I want you to be happy. I want everybody to be happy, in the end."

He managed a smile, though he was pretty sure that it was a pale mockery of one, as she turned on her heel and stormed swiftly away. The vague want transformed, grew into a steady firmness that whispered in his ear and presented visions of what would've happened to him and Richard if they'd never had to encounter the darkness of others.

Miranda, sitting by his feet when he woke up with her concerned eyes, did not deserve any of the briars that'd grown steadily up around them.

 

\--

 

xi.

"We need to talk, Henry Bolingbroke," Prospero said, that night - after he'd banished Miranda to somewhere else and settled down outside the hut.

He remembers that the man's eyes were dark, that his mouth was a line and that his hands rested coldly on the staff. He considered turning away and walking back into the darkness... But he was not that much of a fool. He took the darkness before him and sat down, stared flatly at the old man before him.

"...Well," he said, after a long few moments of staring and darkened mysteries trying to rise between them, "talk. I fear that I'll end up babbling for eternity if you give me free rein."

He remembers Prospero's lips curling at that, into something that was not quite a smile. He was used to the gesture, appallingly used to it after a lifetime lived within his family. He only crossed his arms and regarded it with faint suspicion, "Miranda said something to me today."

"She says a lot of things," he found himself saying before he could quite stop himself, a lecture leaping unbidden to his angry lips, "most of them sensible. She's a very smart girl, I would suggest dropping your plans for her and the universe this very second."

"I will take you advice under consideration," he remembers the further curve of Prospero's lips, the deeper look in his eyes. He knew, even then, that the man would do nothing. He had grown weary in the company of stubbornness, it was possibly the main thing that'd got him into this situation, "she did not just say the thing to me, in fact, but _told_ me it. Lectured me with it. Nagged me with it, in a way that I am not accustomed to."

He leant back that time, already sensing a lost cause. Arched a mildly sullen eyebrow and waited for Prospero to continue, not providing the slightest sort of prompt.

...He remembers the man reminding him of Richard, in that way. Lost and wandering with others, with those certain two he suddenly became as stubborn as a five year old and just as unwilling to be helpful.

"She said that you weren't happy," Prospero said, quite simply. A quick glance at him revealed that his eyes remained the same, his mouth remained in a line. His hands kept shifting on the staff - it seemed a habit, a reassurance of presence.

He remembers staring at the magical garden, and then at the stars, and then at anything other than Prospero for a long few moments. It was a pity that his eyes eventually grew determined to drag him back, he could've grown accustomed to looking at anything other than Prospero for the rest of his days, "she _may_ have said the truth."

"Do not pay coy with me. I know very well what is in your heart, Henry Bolingbroke," Prospero's tone became a breath away from a bark at that. He'd faced better barking in his time, he was able to greet it with a dispassionate raise of his eyebrow and slight shrug "...Even if I do not fully understand it."

"You don't fully understand it?" he remembers being a little confused at that, but being determined to hide it. He still wasn't sure if he succeeded, Mary had always accused him of looking perfectly obvious when hiding something and then had proceeded to laugh her head off, "a pity."

"Again you play coy," Prospero's tone was mildly disgusted, all he could do was raise his chin again and look down his nose at the man. he hadn't looked contrite at all, he supposed that was what he got for inviting such kinds of company, "I assume that you're unhappy here because you miss your life. But your life is not that worthy of missing, so I don't understand _why_?"

Why. Heh, he'll always remember the "why". It was the favourite question of the island, such a big word in far too many ways. It encompassed more than a universe - and, since he could not force more than a universe through his unwilling lips, he was always paralysed by it.

He looked down at Prospero again, considered his response for a long few seconds. It was complicated, for a complicated question, but he found something eventually, "You are both wrong and right in equal measure, Prospero, an impressive feat that I would admire at any other time."

He remembers Prospero's mouth tensing briefly at that, firming at the effrontery. He'd felt proud of it at the time, a smug glow in his bones that he'd always felt on the rare occasions that he'd got the better of Richard, "can you explain?"

"Unexplainable admiration is never easy," he couldn't resist mocking, but shrugged at Prospero's growing tenseness and answered anyway. He liked to think that he wasn't a cruel man, usually, and so he could maintain the moral highground as best he could, "my life isn't that deserving of my missing it, no. My wife is dead, my father is dead, my children would probably do better without me and the only other person that... The only other significant one is somebody that I shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole."

He remembers Prospero lifting his chin in return, narrowing his eyes. He looked definitely like he was trying to work him out, trying to untangle an unexpected knot that'd fallen unhelpfully into his lap.

He took a deep breath, surged on with an odd collision of warm pride and confused trepidation, "and so I am not unhappy because of my missing of that, but because of several other significant reasons. This planet does not suit me-"

He remembers Prospero's low laugh, an interruption that led to him briefly grinding to a halt and lifting his chin so high that he was practically leaning backwards. He remembers Prospero tilting his head in amusement, steepling his fingers over his staff and attempting to look ever so scornful, "this planet is a refuge, it suits everybody and so-"

He interrupted with his own laugh in return.

"This planet is your refuge, not mine," he remembers correcting gently, after the laugh with his own fingers steepling. A meeting of chess-players, sitting around an invisible board and discussing the fates of men and women and galaxies slowly tumbling into a central sun, "this planet is your _planet_ , it strikes against me as it strikes against all that isn't yours."

...Prospero fell suddenly silent, a new darkness in his eyes. By his expression, he saw that a new truth had suddenly occurred to him.

He remembers carrying on, with a new sense of heady triumph that almost succeeded in breaking through the dullness and inviting a new stretch of burning and bloodied emotion, "it strikes against my responsibilities, the things that call me beyond this place."

"I have responsibilities, things that call me beyond this place," Prospero snarled, like a thing in a trap, and then seemed to reconsider himself - he sat back and thought calmly to himself for a long few moments, his expression was oddly like Mary's when she was considering a big question "...But they may be different, I will give you that little. What are the responsibilities that make you miserable, Henry Bolingbroke?"

He remembers sighing at the return to his full name, an unpleasant reminder of the mystery around him and the strange walls that were trying to build up.

"I must return home, I must reclaim my children even if they are better off without me," he remembers answering nonetheless, a slow litany that'd been building up unbidden upon his tongue - waiting there for its time to flourish, "I must go for what is mine, I must march right up to my regal cousin and look him in the eye, I must..."

Prospero looked at him, in an odd way. A sudden understanding was dawning in his expression - it wasn't a nice thing, it made him feel unsteady for a reason that he didn't quite know.

"...Do a thousand things. And the weight of them calls me from this planet, and the fact that this planet will not let me go makes me unhappy, and that unhappiness spreads and spreads until it becomes a dullness that threatens to drag me under the sand and bury me there forever."

"Oh," Prospero said.

He expected a comment on his sudden poetry, a sneer at the dullness, a defence of the planet, a disparaging of the weight of expectation that called and called and _called_ -

"Oh," Prospero said, with that sudden understanding still in his expression - seeping there, crawling there, making him examine in a way that he never had before, "well, then, I understand and that is perfectly easy. I will try my very best to get you off this planet, Henry Bolingbroke. And maybe I will try my very best at certain other things too."

 

\--

 

xii.

He would try his best to get him off the planet.

Henry Bolingbroke rose in confusion from their conversation, took the path away from the hut and deeper into the trees. They stretched so high, with gnarled fingers and bitter wood, that they blocked out the sky. He couldn't find it within himself to mind, just kept walking.

He would try his best to get him off the planet.

Henry Bolingbroke had barely found his way through the gnarled forest even in the light, but somehow his feet led him steady and he completed the length of it in a time that felt short. He was proved right when he finally emerged, to dispassionate moonlight instead of blinding sun.

He would try his best to get him off the planet.

Henry Bolingbroke was barely surprised when his feet hit sand. He paused, for barely a moment, and then allowed himself to continue onto it. The world was still dark around him, a darkness so complete that he could be walking deep into the deadly sea for all he knew. He kept going, with a lack of care that no longer astounded him.

...Off this planet.

Henry Bolingbroke walked and walked, for so long that he no longer felt entirely certain of time. He drifted through the dark until his bare toe bumped lightly against metal, and then stopped and remained halted in the dark. His eyes browsed the world around him, his hands twitched slowly at his sides. He knew very well where he was.

He would try his best to get him off the planet.

Henry Bolingbroke had come to the wreck of his ship, the only thing that'd brought him here and the only thing that could take him away. He could imagine the litter of metal lying around him, the shrapnel buried in the sand and just waiting to tear various parts of him open. Mary had laughingly criticised him for his paranoia multiple times, but he knew his own mind. He knew that the universe was a place of dark claws and merciless pits that longed only to drag people in.

He would try his best to get him off the planet.

Henry Bolingbroke remembered the merciless pits of the world, Henry Bolingbroke remembered his wife, Henry Bolingbroke remembered the wreck of his ship. He took in several deep breathes and remained standing there, staring out at nothing. A faint wind stirred his hair, the smell of the sea hit his nostrils, the evidence of this world waited around him in abundance. And, yet... Still he didn't believe it, still he couldn't be as happily faithful as Mary had always been. He believed, of course, but he could never do so _fully_ \- the universe pressed around him, and it was dark and cold and expected too much for one little form to bear sanely.

...He stared into the dark, hopeful and hopeless at the same time. He knew what was expected of him, even if Prospero was the only one that'd realized it.

He would try his best to get him off the planet.

 

\--

 

xiii.

“I need metal,” Prospero said.

“Metal,” he replied flatly, lowering a chunk of what he assumed was bread from his mouth. It was the next morning, the first sun was creeping steadily higher in the sky and Miranda was humming a soft tune in the garden, “is this a random urge, or is there some meaning behind it?”

“I’ll miss your tongue, Henry Bolingbroke,” Prospero retorted sweetly, and took a savage bite of his own food – the man’s teeth were cracked and ragged looking, he barely held back a wince at the sight of them, “if you ever want to leave this planet then you’ll need metal for a new spaceship. We no longer live in the olden days, we can’t hammer together a few pieces of wood and call them acceptable.”

He remained silent for a long few moments, sitting there and regarding Prospero with quiet eyes. He watched and watched until the man got irritated again, swept up his staff with more venom than was strictly necessary and glared at him through narrowed eyes.

“ _What_?”

“I was just thinking that we must come from a similar sort of place, if our ideas of the olden days are that similar,” he said mildly, and went back to finishing his food – munching steadily until he was left nipping at his fingers to clear them of any remaining crumbs, “where in the universe am I supposed to find metal? I know nothing of this planet, and nothing about finding metal besides.”

“Hm,” Prospero eased a little, offered nothing else on his background – he greeted it with an odd mixture of relief and disappointment, he still wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to know the past behind the man, “I will send Caliban with you, and I can do nothing else besides that. He knows this place even better than I do, in some ways. He will lead you right, as long as you keep your wits around you.”

He was a little stunned at the conclusion, but he was done protesting for the day. He placed the ragged wooden plate that he’d been eating from away and then went to get ready. By the time that he emerged back into the hut proper Prospero was gone. By the time that he emerged blinking into the sun Caliban was already crouching a few feet away from the hut, squinting with an odd mixture of suspicion and hope.

“Can’t you come nearer the hut?” He called out as a tentative greeting, picking his way through the still unsettling garden until he was standing by the creature’s side, “is there some sort of barrier in the way? I remember, when my cousin first learned how to generate forcefields he would always put them up and-“

“My master forbids it,” Caliban interrupted him, but seemed to ease just a little. He wasn’t quite so terrifying in the daylight, though he smelled from close up. Dirt seemed ingrained into his every pore. He reminded him of the creatures on some of the less scrupulous farms, the ones who lived and died in their own helpless filth, “he used to allow me close, but… Things changed. Are we to set off now?”

He stared curiously at that, but there seemed little else to do. Maybe Caliban’s scent would become easier, masked by the numerous smells of the forest, “I suppose, if that’s what you want.”

“I am not supposed to want,” Caliban sneered, an ugly expression on a dirty face. Still turned on his heel and set off into the undergrowth, in a limping canter that put him in mind of those beasts yet again, “not any longer.”

…And there was little that he could say to that either.

They walked for hours, or at least it seemed like hours still accounting for the vagaries of this dreamlike place. The forest was thick around them, and seemed to buzz with an odd sort of pressure. He considered stopping a few times, just to pant out a few presumably realistic breaths against it, but Caliban kept bounding on ahead of him and he didn’t feel comfortable alone. With others he could sometimes force that old dullness down, alone he was lost entirely to himself.

They started to climb after a roughly estimated hour, and kept climbing after that. The trees parted a little – but, in retaliation, the atmosphere seemed to get even more fraught. It pressed against his temples in a way that intermittently made him feel like his head was about to explode, seeped into his lungs in a way that constantly made him feel dizzy. He almost considered crying out for Caliban, but stopped himself at the last moment. A tiny, stupid, part of him still felt like the creature was the type to fall upon his flesh if exposed to the slightest bit of weakness.

It did, at least, get a little better once they reached the final tree and walked into a world that was purely battered rocks and small shrubs and timidly waving grass. He was surprised by the change, but he wasn’t about to complain. He was even more surprised by the fact that Caliban was finally slowing, only _after_ the most difficult part of course, but also wasn’t about to complain about that either. All he could do was brace himself, slow alongside the creature until they eventually reached…

Their final stop.

A tiny patch of copper on the hillside, standing out against the darkest bit of rock only when you squinted and tilted your head a little.

“Is that it?” He asked, figuring that it was an alright opening. He was pretty sure that it wasn’t great, of course, but he was afraid that that really couldn’t be helped. He’d never been that good at openings even when he was fully awake, Richard had mocked him for it viciously to the point where he’d felt paranoid at nearly every occasion where words were a necessity.

He was proved right, by Caliban’s expression when he turned back to him. It was hard for such a creature to look judgemental, but Caliban managed it with a skill that was downright shocking, “can you dig?”

He stared for another moment, frankly shocked. The nightmare feeling returned briefly, but he took a deep breath in and… It oddly dispersed, seeming to float up into the amber sky above in a way that made him wonder if he’d somehow risen above the land of dreaming, “a little, though I’ve never really had much call for the skill. And I don’t have any sort of spade-“

“Spade,” Caliban huffed scornfully, and crouched right down to the ground – burying his hand deep in the muck in a way that swiftly explained that most of his mess was of his own making, “use fingers, it is far quicker than any _spade_.”

He choked on a sigh for a long moment, feeling a level of despair that could only be put into words with a severe amount of effort.

…He shrugged to himself, and kneeled right down. Buried his formerly pristine fingers in the dirt besides Caliban, consoled himself with the thought of Richard’s wincing at even a suggestion of such an activity and got reluctantly down to work. Pushing his fingers deep into the rotten-seeming mud and removing it until the pure metal glinted through underneath.

It was an easy enough skill to master, once he’d observed Caliban for a while and received a few slaps on his wrist due to idiocy.

And so, by the time that the sun started to set and they both finally rose from their duty, a decent pile of metal had been gathered. He had no idea if it was enough, or even the right sort, but he felt proud of the day’s work. He had laboured for longer than he even knew, with little encouragement and a steady ache beginning in his back. He had taken a step back towards the waking world, given a vivid form by the sky melting to indigo above them. By the end he even felt comfortable enough to briefly touch Caliban’s arm, leave his hand there for a few seconds before withdrawing it with a barely hidden wince.

“Metal,” Caliban said, with a still pleased grimace.

 

\--

 

xiv.

“I need string,” Prospero said.

It was the next morning, a little later than yesterday. Still a touch tired from their long walk back, it took him an age to bite back an angry response and carry reasonably on with life, “and why would you ever need that?”

“Always with the mouth,” Prospero sneered, but went on to explain – at least in part, he was a man who traded in secrets like they were sugared treats, “it’s yet another thing that I’ll need for your new spaceship. Do not bother to question me on the matter, just assume that I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Unfortunately he still had not gained Mary’s blind optimism, and did not feel entirely convinced that he ever would. He made an angry face, crossed his arms and trusted that it carried across just a little of his wild confusion, “I know my spaceships, Prospero, even if I’m apparently deficient in other areas. No ship, since the beginning of _time_ , has ever needed string to play a vital part.”

“No _ordinary_ ship,” Prospero corrected him, with another sneer that was starting to become only mildly annoying as opposed to an irritation that struck right to his core, “but, as you have already so intelligently observed, little of what goes on in this place is ordinary. This planet is not ordinary, the way you fell onto it was not ordinary, the way that you eventually rise off it will not be ordinary.”

He stared sullenly for a moment, briefly unwilling to admit that the man had any sort of point.

“Now,” he took it as granted anyway, smiled a wide smile with his dirty teeth and spread his hands in the manner of a king overlooking his lands, “get me my string. I will wait patiently until you return with it clutched in your delicate hands.”

…That damned man.

But, still, there was little point in protesting the sheer obnoxiousness of him. All that he could do was rise – dress again, this time with a touch more reluctance then before, and emerge into the world afresh. The world that Prospero had abandoned to cackle in a corner somewhere, the world that even Miranda had skipped free from on her father’s command.

He was expecting to meet Caliban outside again, a meeting that he was looking forward to with an oddly cautious optimism, and so was deeply surprised when no sign of the creature manifested itself. The world outside seemed to be empty, completely and utterly so, and for a long moment he wondered if Prospero had decided to punish him for his legitimate concerns by leaving him to flounder… But no.

No, he had done far worse.

It took a long few moments to spot, but he supposed that his eyes were quickly becoming accustomed to the nightmare of this island. There was that old violet light waiting for him, hovering just by the trees in a generally unassuming way. When he spotted it he couldn’t stop looking at it, in a way that nailed despair deep into his gut. It seemed, oddly enough, to be looking at him in return – examining him with a fascination that made him deeply uncomfortable.

He snarled through his nose, stomped over to it as angrily as he could. He was becoming sick of being trapped in life, of having his choices ripped away from him one by one by a cruel nightmare that simply couldn’t let alone, “this must be a joke.”

The violet light remained hovering, politely failing to comment on his outburst. He got a faint sense of curiosity from it, but pushed the sensation aside. He was probably just going insane, it was long overdue on this planet – where every single motion seemed designed to rip his brain out from his skull and swirl it around.

“It must be,” he insisted, and sullenly crossed his arms. Mary would’ve scolded him for it, but Mary wasn’t here and so he was free to be as childish as he liked. It was a liberating feeling, especially after so many years of viciously repressing it. It felt almost like he’d finally turned around and screamed at the rotting hulk of the empire that’d trapped him so surely, “because reality couldn’t be this consistently cruel. Does Prospero want to drive me insane? Create another babbling wreck on this planet of madmen?”

The violet light… Did not respond, just remained hovering. He briefly got a sense of sympathy, but quickly dismissed it as yet another trick of his mind. He longed for sympathy, but he would never get it. That was the curse of his life.

“You are all far too cruel,” he snapped sulkily, and kept his arms crossed over his chest. The urge to wail and moan and gnash his teeth was still eerily present, he only resisted it with the voice of Mary urging him on towards the back of his head “…And will one day suffer for it. Lead on, then. You insane thing in an insane land.”

The trip seemed to take shorter than yesterday, and yet longer. Perhaps it was because it was in an entirely different direction, heading down the world instead of up it. They passed through the thick forest in an entirely new direction, one that he’d never experienced before. The trees seemed slightly closer together here, a choking proximity that almost blocked out the sun. He felt like he was choking, but still kept going. He would not let the violet light see him fall once again.

As time went on the trees seemed to bunch closer and closer together, until he was feeling actively claustrophobic. The darkness grew more and more profound, until he often had to raise his hand in front of his face to make sure that it was still attached. The sense of isolation was profound, a physical weight upon his shoulders. He’d never been afraid of the dark, but this place was making him consider an exception. He missed Mary profoundly, she’d had a natural light that’d never seemed to admit even the possibility of shadows.

The very darkest shadows, for by the time the violet light started to slow it was practically midnight. He had the feeling that they were in the very darkest part of the forest, an isolated place that felt somewhat like a church. And by that he didn’t mean merciful, but _judgemental_ \- the pressure against his skin felt like a pair of glaring eyes, trying to drill him slowly into the ground. He did not feel entirely worthy of existing in this place – he did not, to tell the truth, feel entirely worthy of existing at all.

When the violet light slowed finally to a halt it seemed to notice this, oddly enough. Yet again he got the sense of being examined… And then the sense of something coming closer, pressing against him. He was already so close to a scream that he could barely find it within himself to care, could only grit his teeth and briefly allow his eyes to slide shut. Maybe if he pretended that he didn’t see then everything would stop existing. The pressure, the darkness, the sheer feeling of worthlessness…

But the pressure continued to press, grinding him into the ground.

And the darkness continued to darken, stranding him in a world where light was completely alien.

And the sheer feeling of worthlessness continued to grow and grow and grow until it weighed him down like a stone on his chest…

And an odd shot of cool went through him, a pleasant tingling sensation that reminded him of a step into a perfectly warm shower or a triumph at a minor game or the feeling of the wind through his hair. His eyes snapped open immediately, took the slightly brighter world in with a feeling of mild awe. For a brief moment, a very brief moment, he thought that he saw the outline of a man in the violet light.

“Thank you,” he murmured, with a depth of sincerity that shocked him. He suddenly felt sane again. The darkness hadn’t melted entirely away, but it was far enough to be manageable, “whatever you are. Where is this string that I have to collect?”

There was a long pause, one that seemed to thrum with an odd sort of anticipation. The violet light seemed to grow a little brighter, as if trying to say something. He watched it with a profound curiosity-

“ _Ariel_.”

…Ariel?

And then followed it automatically as it flew to the side, led him to a little alcove away from average sight and carrying an air of secrecy that couldn’t be denied. The feeling of a church returned, but as it should be this time – a peaceful glow, an acceptance that couldn’t help but make him feel just a little bit better about the whole mysterious thing.

A web laid in the alcove. But not just a web, a _web_ \- it was three times his size, stretching and rippling until it filled the entirety of the space. It was massive and delicate and seemed to glint a little in the dark, as if it carried an odd inner light of its own. He’d never had anything against spiders, Mary had always been the one to put the few that wandered in outside but that was because she’d had an odd sort of fondness for the little things, but the sight of this giant web made even his skin crawl. He expected a giant arachnid to crawl out of the shadows and attempt to eat him at any moment.

But the violet light, Ariel sounded an appropriate term for it, did not flinch. Did not tremble like it was afraid. Did not even seem paranoid in the slightest degree. It just remained hovering there, regarding him calmly. He supposed that it was encouragement enough – this was the string that Prospero had sent him to get, it was perfectly safe at least for now.

“Right,” he said, still uncertainly, and took a slow step forwards. There was a persistent trembling in his limbs, and so he took another hasty stride to counter it “… _Right_.”

And then got down to work, as easily as one of those mythical beasts dragging itself through quicksand.

In the end it took several hours. Or possibly minutes, for time seemed to move even slower in this quasi-church. His hands became covered in strands of white, his back ached and there was an oddly watery feeling in his mouth. He staggered back exhausted, a bone deep ache wherever he cared to think of. The only prize was an armful of string, clutched to his chest and still shining just slightly.

“ _String_ ,” that odd voice whispered happily in his ear once again, and let out a wind-tunnel giggle that somehow made him feel the slightest bit better.

 

\--

 

xv.

“I need shells,” Prospero said.

It was morning again. This time a little earlier, just to be contrary. He set down the food that he’d just picked up with a low sigh, focused on Prospero with a certain kind of weariness. Resignation was starting to rise again. It was the angry kind, so he didn’t mind quite so much, “I deeply hope that you’re actually doing something with these tenuously linked things.”

“No, I’m putting them into a bag that I’ll present to you at the end of the week with a loud cackle,” Prospero snapped with a certain level of irritation. They rolled their eyes together. He desperately hoped that Prospero was actually doing something, any longer on this planet and he had the feeling that they’d end up fighting to the death, “I need the shells for protection, don’t question me any further.”

“Because that is a phrase that always stops any further questions,” he muttered wryly, and propped his chin on his hands. He was really just being troublesome for the sake of it, he knew what was at stake and desperately wished for the matter to be concluded, “where will I find these mysterious shells today? Deep underground? High up a tree? In some mystical grove that will take what remains of my waking sanity as payment?”

“On the beach,” Prospero answered with a sneer, he was surprised enough to let it pass without comment, “though I can’t speak for your ‘waking sanity’, it already seems tenuous enough.”

“Thanks ever so for your medical opinion,” he sniffed, and raised his nose – There was something about Prospero that reminded him of Richard, perhaps it was that what annoyed him so profoundly, “and who will you be sending with me today? Your poor, chained beast? Your mysterious spirit that speaks like the wind? Some formerly unrevealed servant with terrible teeth and a body like nightmares?”

“My darling daughter, Miranda,” perhaps he reminded Prospero of somebody else too, perhaps that was why the man was baring his teeth. He spared a brief moment to wonder exactly _who_ , but found himself far too weary to actually care, “though keep that body of nightmares in mind, I might set it on you if you keep being so troublesome.”

“The threat of a brave man,” he couldn’t help but snap, but was already rising to his feet – he couldn’t decide between relieved and puzzled, and so he settled for a continuation of that annoyance instead “…And will it make me feel like I’m dreaming again? Like I’m mid-nightmare with absolutely no way out?”

…There was silence for a long moment, as they both regarded each other or the people standing in each other’s place.

“That,” Prospero said with some solemnity, eventually turning away and getting back to his feast, “is not something that can ever be promised, Henry Bolingbroke.”

Miranda was waiting for him outside, when he finally dragged himself out. She greeted him with a big grin and bounced over, at a speed that would’ve surprised him if he hadn’t dealt with six children of his own. Looking at her he was reminded of Hal, but a slightly nicer version. She didn’t regard him with resentment, she didn’t turn to others when he failed just the slightest bit, “ready to go?”

He smiled a little, at all she was not. Managed a slight nod as he stepped forwards once again, “ready if you are.”

The walk was quicker this time, he’d made it several times before. The forest seemed a little more open, a little less crushing with the inevitable weight of dreams. He picked his way through the undergrowth carefully, only experiencing the slightest headache. Miranda maintained a cheerful babble every step of the way, keeping his mind on the waking reality instead of the dreaming insanity that ever threatened.

…That threatened a little less closely, today.

Somehow he felt more spirited, a thing that he’d only noticed towards the back of his mind when he’d been casually fighting with Prospero. He wasn’t sure if it was something about Miranda, or something about the taste of freedom, or something that the strange Ariel had done yesterday – but it was most certainly _there_. He no longer felt on a slope, sliding slowly into a black hole. He felt… Alright.

Okay, so he still felt a little bad. But alright was the best that he could hope for, really, and so he would take it with both hands. Maybe actual happiness would make a reappearance someday, otherwise he was determined to take whatever was begrudgingly given.

Miranda let out a cry of joy when they eventually reached the beach, and he couldn’t help smiling along with her. The sand stretched out, pristine and golden, before them. He imagined freedom yet again, and stepped forward to claim his tiny little slice of it as best he could.

“My father told me what ones to get,” Miranda confided in him with a bright smile, bending down and picked up a perfectly round shell that was about half the size of her hand, “as big as possible, without any breaks and strong when you exert pressure on it. That should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?”

“I’d hope so,” he managed a grin, and mimicked her action. The first shell that he picked up cracked in his hands, he sighed and went hunting for another one “…I’ve never really gone hunting for shells before, I must confess that this is all a bit new to me.”

“You’ve never gone hunting for shells before?” Miranda asked like it was something stunning, her mouth popping open in a gawp as she produced a mysterious bag to put both her first and her second shell in, “didn’t you live anywhere near a beach? Or the sea? I thought that everybody liked to gather shells.”

“I was far away from both beach and sea,” he laughed gently, added his first shell to Miranda’s catch and knelt awkwardly in the sand to try and find an acceptable other, “unfortunately, and my father was always a bit too busy to travel there with me. This is only the second or third beach that I’ve ever seen, actually. I’ve lived in the city for most of my life planetside.”

Miranda gave him a wide eyed glance at that, as if she couldn’t believe it. Her hands gathered her third shell, then her fourth, and then stilled “…What is a city?”

“I pray you never find out properly,” he murmured under his breath, and then raised his voice to explain the rough facts. By the time that he was done he’d gathered five more shells, Miranda only dismissed one of them with a high giggle and so the rest went into the growing bulge of the bag perfectly happily.

It took several hours, filled with soft and innocent conversation, before Miranda finally deemed them done. The sun was setting in the sky, the feeling of dreams in his head was a little like the tide – advancing and receding with every silence and distracting word. There was a big smile on Miranda’s face as she finally turned to him again, took his hand – he allowed it, for faint fear of the plunge, and also allowed himself to be dragged along.

“Shells!” Miranda triumphed, and laughed softly to herself all the way back to the hut.

 

\--

 

xvi.

“I trust that you’ve got everything that you need,” he said.

It’d been that night, long after he should’ve been sensibly in bed. Miranda had already retired, neither Caliban nor Ariel were to be seen. He was left alone by the suddenly burning fire with Prospero, staring into its depths and hoping that it would eventually give him the honest answers that he so sorely lacked.

He remembers Prospero not answering for a long few seconds, keeping his eyes fixed upon the fire. His hands, as ever, had been clenched around the staff – contemplatively this time, a slight relaxing of his white knuckles that made him seem even older than before, “That is a very wide question, Henry Bolingbroke. It might be wise to specify it a little before I bore you with several hours of my petty grievances.”

“I was referring to the building of my ship,” he’d replied wearily, only a touch of anger colouring his tone and turning him against Prospero yet again, “have you got all the random things necessary to make it? Or will I be led by Caliban to another nightmare tomorrow? I just wish to prepare, I’ve already been fond of guarding against any eventualities.”

“No. I will send my spirit with you tomorrow, or my daughter, or that strange beast that you referred to before,” he was surprised when Prospero only smiled slightly at his rudeness, remained staring into the fire. It was a display of resignation that he’d never expected from the man, “everything has been gathered, Henry Bolingbroke, your way back to the stars will be done within a week.”

…He remembers blinking at that, in an entirely stunned way.

He barely had time to do more, before he could summon up anything like relief or shock Prospero was turning to him properly. Regarding him with those ancient eyes like he could see all his secrets and found himself sadly fascinated, “though, to be honest, I still must admit to not quite understanding your reasons.”

It was possibly what he’d least expected. He’d thought Prospero many things, but he’d never thought him forgetful. The only response was to blink for another long few seconds before answering puzzledly, “I told you them-“

“Knowing and understanding are two different things, Henry Bolingbroke,” He remembers Prospero laughing at him softly, returning to giving him that still pensive glance. It unsettled him in a way that none of the man’s former huffing had ever done, “tell me your reasons again, go slower this time and maybe I will be able to pick them up.”

He’d felt like it was a trap, he’d had little choice but to trip reluctantly into it anyway, “I have responsibilities, back where I come from, things that I’m supposed to do-”

“But your responsibilities will bring you no pleasure,” Prospero’s eyes had suddenly been on him, hot and slightly angry – he hadn’t been able to help himself from quailing under them, shrinking away like he’d already done something terribly wrong, “I am not a seer, it is one of the few things not amongst my talents, but it doesn’t take an ability to see the future to know the truth.”

He remembers gawping for a second, torn between incredulous and terrified. A voice in his head had been screaming to just hit the man, another had been wailing desperately for him to listen “…You- you dare to talk of the truth on this island-?”

“There are many truths on this island, if you look for them,” Prospero’s eyes had grown dark, the desire to hit him had steadily abated under his gaze – it would be like taking arms against an oracle, and he _hated_ himself for that thought more than he ever had before, “there are more truths here than in the universe, where so many things cloud your judgement at once.”

His words had rung true. He still couldn’t help but laugh, a high-pitched sound that was so far below rational that he felt deeply ashamed at it, “you lie.”

He remembers Prospero’s lips curving, in something that could barely be called a smile. Prospero’s head shaking, in a way that made him resent the man’s wiseness, “why would I possibly-?”

“There are more mysteries here than there ever were in the universe,” he had spat, and watched Prospero fall suddenly silent – watching him with eyes that were somehow sad, as if observing a story that had happened so many times before, “the mystery of why Caliban is enslaved, the mystery of what Ariel is, the mystery of you and Miranda and this whole place. How can you claim that this is home to any truths, _how_ -?”

“Calm down, Henry Bolingbroke, you are forgetting yourself,” Prospero had interrupted him calmly, and watched him fall tremblingly silent. For once there had been no mocking in his eyes, only a quiet kind of determination that was somehow even worse, “Caliban is enslaved because he tried to ruin something innocent, and now must forever pay the price.”

He remembers gulping, ducking his head. The mystery of Caliban suddenly became a lot clearer, the creature becoming more pathetic than terrifying by the moment.

“Ariel was once trapped in a tree on this very planet, he now serves me. He is a creature from before logic, a creature who finds it something foreign and curious. He is more of the air and the whistle of space than of human blood and emotion.”

He’d gulped again, kept his head ducked. The worry of Ariel also became a lot clearer, forming into a certain shape instead of a vague violet light and the press of dreaming against his forehead.

“And as for me and Miranda…” He remembers lifting his head only to see Prospero pensive again, refused to duck it and instead met the man’s eyes. There was a truth in there, one that he didn’t want to admit no matter how obvious it was. He watched Prospero slowly smile, and knew that it was a battle already lost, “I will tell you, Henry Bolingbroke, why I believe in the lying nature of the universe.”

And that was that, in the simplest sort of form. He’d sat forward, mildly curious, and Prospero had begun – keeping those ancient eyes fixed upon him every winding word of the way.

“I was once the ruler of the planet Milan. You’ve probably heard of it, it is one of the most famous producers of textiles in all the galaxies. I was in most there for most of my life, forty years or more, and I think that I was at least an acceptable ruler. I cared for my people, I cared for their protection, I cared for justice and hope and all those other meaningless words that we repeat in a crisis. I had a wife, I had a daughter – I was as happy as I possibly could be.”

“…But you must remember that such happiness cannot last forever.”

“It all started when my wife died, I suppose. Or perhaps there were rumblings before that and I just didn’t notice due to my obsession with happiness. She was carried away unexpectedly in her prime, much like your wife, and the sudden loss of her stunned me in a way that shouldn’t seem quite so distant now. I would not eat, I would barely sleep, I was incapable of admitting visitors. It was a natural mourning process, everybody is allowed their time.”

“Except me, evidently. For there were figures lurking in the shadows, and they had been grasping for my happiness with bony fingers since the moment they noticed it. I had a brother, Antonio… Well, if you could call such a miserable wretch a brother. He wanted everything that I had, and was willing to do everything in his power to get it. He wouldn’t have succeeded on his own, of course, but there were other figures waiting in the wings to tug my life away at the merest slip.”

“…You definitely remember the emperor of the Naples quadrant, and so there’s no need to remind you. I will not treat you like an idiot, you deserve more than that.”

“At least the emperor thought that he was doing a good thing, but they were both terribly misguided in so many ways. They tore me from my planet and thrust me out into space, an exile of the most miserable sort with only my daughter and the ancient books of my ancestors to comfort me. We were cold, lonely, eventually hungry. My heart burnt with the injustice of it all, and the injustice of the fact that nobody had bothered to ask my opinion on the matter – had just condemned my daughter and me to the deadliest kind of death.”

“The only luck was that one of my old advisors, a loyal friend that I miss dearly when I can remember him, _had_ left those books. I was always a quick study, I took all the information into myself quickly and was able to steer my daughter and I to the nearest planet. An unprepossessing world, never explored by man and covered in a jungle so thick that it would swallow us up before I could form a single plan.”

“I still remember our first day here, stepping timidly onto the golden sand and jumping at the strange whispers all around…”

“But that is irrelevant. We landed on the planet. We found Caliban, much younger and sweeter than what he has grown into now. We found Ariel, and cut him out of his tree in exchange for several years of service. We formed a new life, a true one on this planet of sanctuary… And I, at least, started to make plans without the distraction of buzzing life around me. Started to plot – to lure them here, to show them my planet, to get my life back to what it once was.”

Prospero had stared at him, flatly. He had only gazed back with his mouth gaping open, spellbound.

He remembers…

“But now, Henry Bolingbroke, I am starting to doubt. Just a little, just a whisper. And I am starting to wonder if the way of revenge is the true way at all.”

“And that is my truth.”

He _remembers_ …

“I was once the son of John of Gaunt, so named because he was born on the planet of Ghent,” he had whispered, the information leaving his lips for the first time in decades, “I had two older sisters, both of whom followed in his footsteps and became excellent pilots and defenders of the empire. My mother died very soon after my birth, I didn’t really know her, but my father soon remarried another woman who gave me another half-sister. The true love of his life was my nurse, though, the beautiful Katherine. She gave me four half-siblings, and yet was still often the only one who seemed to have time for me.”

“I had a big family, not just counting my siblings and half-siblings. My grandfather had had an absurd amount of children, and so I had many aunts and uncles and cousins. I got along with them well enough, I suppose – we were normal children and so we played, ran around various corridors and made far too much noise. Everybody joined in, in hindsight it was a truly happy time. The only one who seemed a little awkward was the heir to the empire, Richard, but that didn’t trouble me as much as it does now. Children can have the most restricted view.”

“I remember having a happy childhood, with everything. I had family, I had friends, I had at least one adult who paid attention to me… It was only later that everything went wrong.”

“I married young. Within the law, but still young. We’d fallen in love and didn’t see any need to wait. Her name was Mary – and, no insult meant to your departed wife or Miranda, she was the best woman in the universe. She was beautiful, her hair sometimes used to go reddish in the sunlight and I still remember how her nose crinkled up today. But she wasn’t just lovely because of her looks – she was smart, she was kind, she had a laugh that frightened birds from the trees. She liked all kinds of music, and could play many musical instruments. She was good at gardening, even if she sometimes loved her charges to death. She liked spiders well enough, but always insisted that birds were looking at her funny.”

“…I adored her.”

“I remember my father saying, I’m not exactly sure when, that everybody forgets the details eventually. But that still hasn’t happened for me. I’m not sure if I hope for it to never happen. I love her, I want to keep loving _all_ of her.”

“That was probably the happiest period of my life, even happier than my childhood. I had Mary and we soon had children together. I had, for once, the vague approval of my father and my sisters kept in contact. I even had the association of my cousin, now emperor after the unfortunate death of our grandfather, and his wife – we had married around the same time, and Anne and Mary always seemed to get along excellently.”

“But everything rots, that’s the way of the world. What was once good will turn bad with the movement of the sun. Richard loved Anne, but he had his favourites too – seemed incapable of leaving them for some reason that I do not presume to understand. I wouldn’t have approved of them even if they’d been the most innocent souls in the universe, but they were hungry for power and willing to create a tyranny to get it. We had to stand against it, all of us. My father was off on his work, my sisters were with him, and so I was left to do what they would’ve done – take their place, try to talk Richard into something different.”

“We forced De Vere, his main favourite and a terrible man, to flee to another galaxy, he deserved it, and then went directly to Richard’s stronghold itself. I still remember his face when we arrived, paler than I’ve ever seen him – it’s something that’ll remained etched onto my memory forever, alongside Mary’s laugh and… I can’t even think of what else is important.”

“He met our demands. Eventually, probably after Anne talked him into some semblance of sense. There were five of us there, my uncle Thomas included, but he seemed to talk mainly to me. He took me into his confidence, led me to the battlements and talked to me under the stars. He said so many things then, and I don’t want to repeat them even… Even after everything. We cling to the old intimacies even after the current intimacy has been destroyed, it’s the only way to survive.”

“We, or rather Thomas and Arundel and Beauchamp, took power from my cousin for a year. Things started off almost rational, but soon my uncle proved himself even more of a despot than Richard. He is painted as a saint by certain groups, but I remember him well enough. He was a self-centred man, obsessed with what he could do to advance his own aims. He was vain and arrogant and capable of being very cruel. I’m glad about what eventually happened to him, even if I can say it only in your sanctuary.”

“…I still remember my father’s face when he returned, saw what an almighty hash of it we’d made. He yelled at me for hours, yelled at his brother for longer. Within a few months everything was largely as it had been before. With the absence of De Vere, that loathsome creature still exiled to another galaxy.”

“Richard and Anne said that they forgave me, of course, but after what happened awkward suspicion was natural. My father regarded me as an idiot, and my sisters thought that I was little better. The only people that I had left were my immediate family – Mary who had soothed me throughout, my young children who were growing by the day. Tom was born soon after the crisis, John followed swiftly after him. Over the following few years came Humphrey, Pippa and Blanche. They were the jewels of our eyes, the most perfect creatures that I’d ever seen. And, even after everything I’d ruined, I thought that maybe I had a chance of being happy again.”

“Hah, what a thought. We had been married close to each other, and now we were parted even closer. Who, you ask with your confused eyes? Me and Mary, Richard and Anne. Mary died so suddenly that I had little time to do anything other than gawp, Anne died swiftly after of a disease that she’d apparently been hiding. I was left all alone, with six hungry mouths asking where their mother had disappeared to. Richard was left with not even that, just the imprint of her head on the pillow and his own grief.”

“I remember-“

“Oh, lord, you know. You must know. I can’t remember that time, it’s still a knife in my heart. A darkness, a dullness, the feeling of seeing my Mary in her coffin-“

“…I’m alright, I’m alright.”

“I remember the next year in flashes, maybe I blocked most of it out. I remember the worried faces of my children, the ones old enough to understand sobbing when they thought I wasn’t looking. I remember Richard, turning away from me and coiling into himself like _nothing_ could ever make it better. I remember my father, gripping my shoulders and yelling at me to just be myself again.”

“Things got clearer after that, I’m pleased to say. Not better, but at least there was little fading involved. I started to talk again, I did my job properly instead of sitting and staring coldly into the blackness of space. My children helped, my father did not, my cousin _definitely_ did not. I did not feel normal, it is not possible to feel such when the dullness is upon you, but at least I could cover reasonably well.”

“Which is more than I can say for Richard. He seemed to lose a lot of interest in the universe them, a lot of investment in the world around him. De Vere hadn’t loved him, I _hated_ the man and so knew very well that he wasn’t capable of love, but he had loved De Vere and De Vere was gone. He and Anne had loved each other, and Anne was gone. He had no children, and I think he knew very well that his favourites really meant little to him. He was all alone, drifting in a dark universe entirely created by his mind.”

“I remember how it started to go sour.”

“Richard had never forgiven those who had driven De Vere from him, but with Anne by his side he had at least been willing to forgive. When Anne went she took all mercy with her, he was in a dark world of his own and he was determined to _destroy_ it. He murdered my uncle, made sure that Arundel and Beauchamp were destroyed in much the same way. The main aggressors gone, his darkness made him turn on those who had tried to preach moderation.”

“There was me, and there was a man named Mowbray. Richard had recently remarried, a strategic alliance with the emperor of The Franks, and so could’ve rebuilt his life with his new wife and new children and an entirely new start… But grief is never that easy. Richard was a smart man, even after everything that he’d lost – instead of killing us outright, he decided to turn us against each other.

“Within but a few months we were both already paranoid. Mowbray was a stupid man susceptible to such things, and I had my own reasons – we were both easy prey for the man that Richard had become.”

“…I can remember my reasons, actually. My father was clearly dying, and I was about to lose another. Reason enough for many things that prey on the mind.”

“Our fall didn’t take long, in the end. Mowbray soon accused me of treason, and we were pulled up in front of Richard who recommended a trial by combat. It’s an archaic form of fixing things, but a recommendation by the king is more an order. We both arrived on the intended day, clambered into our cockpits, primed our weapons and-“

“Were forced to wait, as Richard called a halt. He had been doing it to toy with us, a sign of the underlying cruelty that’d only grown worse since he’d lost Anne. Instead of calling one of us innocent and damning the other he told us both that we were to be exiled. Mowbray was never to return, I was to crawl back with my tail between my legs in six years. A mercy, apparently… A cruelty, for it did not take a doctor to see that my father would most probably die before the year was out. Richard’s father had died in much the same way, and he’d been allowed to say goodbye. And yet he was robbing it from me. He was _robbing_ -“

“I remember that my father approved of it nonetheless, seemed uncomfortable in my arms when I dared to hug him goodbye. The only other person allowed to say goodbye to me was my cousin Aumerle, Richard’s most recent favourite. He was probably the nicest cousin that I had, despite his bad taste, but he was no substitute for other things. At least you have your daughter, I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to my children.”

“I climbed into my ship and took my reluctant path into exile. I ended up drifting into the empire of The Franks, a kind place that treated me well. I would’ve rather been back on the centre world of _my_ empire, able to visit my wife’s grave and see my children and father, but it was nice enough. I even made new friends, close ones who didn’t try to force me into anything. Joan was my favourite… Joan, the one bright spot in a steadily darkening world.”

“A swiftly darkening world. My predictions had proved correct, my father died soon after I’d departed. We’d always had a fraught relationship, but he was still my father and I loved him. I should’ve been allowed to say goodbye. At least briefly, over a communication if nothing else. But no, Richard took that from me too.”

“And Richard took more, I still remember punching the wall when I found out just how much.”

“My father was the son of the old emperor, and an extremely intelligent man besides. He had made several sensible investments over his lifetime, and upon his death had been the proud owner of several stretches of land. My sisters had both preferred to build their own empires, and so most of it should’ve gone to me. It wouldn’t have made up for missing his death, but it would’ve been something. It would’ve meant that I could provide for my own children in the future.”

“But Richard disapproved of that idea. He took my lands, quite suddenly and illegally. Extended my banishment and told me that he would keep what was mine. I would have nothing, I would be nothing. From an honoured exile to a creature begging for scraps and starving all the while. He had destroyed our bond for his own greed. He had forgotten we were family, he had forgotten that we had once been friends, he had forgotten how I-!”

“…I remember it being the last straw. I had supporters, I had a little money left, I had my ship. I used all three, I planned my return back to where Richard was. I decided to come for what was mine, and am still coming for it even now.”

“Even here, stranded on this island with only a man far too similar to me to propel me back to the stars.”

“About a day into my voyage back home I flew into a sudden space storm and accidentally crashed my ship, when I recovered from the shock I found myself on this planet of no logical sense. I have been living here for the past more than a week, and have been subject to your whims ever since then,” he’d sat back a little, surprised to realize that he was cramping, and had regarded Prospero through tired eyes. The other man also hadn’t moved, was still staring at him with an emotion that he tentatively identified as quiet dismay, “and that is my truth.”

He remembers silence, for a long few moments.

“What is yours,” Prospero had repeated, in a contemplative tone. His face had been still and thoughtful, it’d been ominous in a way that couldn’t be denied.

“Yes-“

“Don’t.”

“… _Pardon_?”

“Don’t,” and he remembers the man staring at him, desperate across the fire with his knuckles white upon his staff, “please, let me trust in you. _Don’t_ do the thing that lurks deep within your mind, don’t ruin your life even further, _don’t_.”

 

\--

 

xvii.

The next day he was called out of his bed at an absurdly early hour. Dazed and still half in that other room of dreaming, he was not sure what it’d be like to return to the waking world, he dressed in a tumble of limbs and followed Prospero automatically – through the knotted forest, down the barely golden beach, onwards and onwards until he saw…

He came to a halt, wide-eyed and with his jaw going slack.

“Well?” Prospero asked a touch proudly, spinning around to gauge his reaction to the thing lying directly in his path, “do you approve of your road to freedom, Henry?”

A perfect silver ship lay on the sand, as good as new. It bore little resemblance to his old ship, but he barely remembered his old ship and so barely minded. It glinted seductively in the early sun – it looked strong, and sturdy, and perfectly capable of lifting him up and taking him back to the world of responsibility and things that had to be done.

“I do,” he said sincerely, and took a slow step closer – raising his hand to feel the odd thrum of energy hovering just under his hand, “very much so. Thank you, Prospero, it’s absolutely perfect.”

Prospero only smirked, remained smug… He could still see, trying its best to remain hidden behind all those other emotions, the shadow of what they’d talked about last night in his eyes.

The next day he remained out late on the sand, checking everything that needed to be checked, before he realized that he would have to say farewell to the dreaming space of this island. It occurred to him that he would almost miss it, but by that point he was too tired to do anything but slump back to the hut and fall into a blank slumber.

 

\--

 

xviii.

He decided to say goodbye to Caliban first.

Oddly enough he’d discovered that he would miss the creature, when he’d woken up dwelling on the matter. He had been so terrified at the start, but prolonged exposure to a thing just made it better. He was no longer terrified, he was simply pitying – and he knew that feeling pity for any creature was probably wrong, but he simply couldn’t help it on the matter of Caliban.

He found him sitting on the beach, staring at the shining ship with a resentment that it was hard not to see. He took a seat besides him, on the golden sand, waited for words to occur.

They occurred to Caliban first, a surprise that stunned him a little. The creature briefly turned his head towards him, and then let out an animal snort and bounced upon his heels. It was a strange sight, dirty rags flapping to show scarred skin, but he barely even flinched at it, “yours?”

“Prospero built it for me,” he offered quietly, an honest answer to an honest question – even if it was probably an unwise one, even if he could already see the hatred foaming in Caliban’s eyes, “it’ll take me away from this terrible place, back to my home.”

Caliban snorted at that again, turned his head away. Resentful silence reigned for a few moments until he managed to find words again “…You won’t be happy there.”

He thought of the endless graves, the probability of his children turning from him, the spectre of the desire that lurked towards the back of his mind. He took a deep breath and ducked his head, the truth grew starker by the moment and he was determined to avoid it, “probably not, but it’s more suited to me. At least there’s a chance of waking, despite everything.”

Caliban regarded him with narrow eyes, then turned away with disbelief writ large on every part of his form. No more words seemed to occur. He remained turned away, sullen with refusal.

“You could come with me,” he found himself offering, so suddenly that it was a surprise even to him. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it. And, now that it’d come out of his mouth, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to happen, “I’m sure that my ship is big enough for two. You could squeeze in, return with me to my galaxy. I’d find a place for you there, and you’d be well fed and well looked after and treated like an actual-“

He was halted with a snarl, and grew silent quickly. Caliban was staring at him with malevolent eyes, it was impossible not to shrink and duck and doubt under them, “there is no place for me, just as there is no place for you. My master hates me, but I am here. I am bound to this land until the day I die.”

The thought of death, so sudden and so absolute, shocked him for a long few moments. He remained silent for a while, staring at the shine of the ship from his place on the gold sand. He grew hot, the sea grew closer for the first time since he’d been here. Neither he or Caliban moved from the places they were fixed.

“Why does your master hate you?” He asked eventually, the only words that he could think of to say. They hung poisonous in the air, dripping from his tongue. He regretted them the moment that they popped out.

…Caliban did not seem to mind. He only turned his head sideways for a long moment, and then let a filthy bark echo from his mouth, “because I tried to ruin something beautiful.”

“What?”

“Miranda,” and a rough chuckle came out of the creature’s mouth, he looked down at his filthy hands like he couldn’t quite understand them “…I did not mean to, you understand, but it happened and my master was angry. So angry. We were of the same age, roughly, I was young when she dropped from the sky. We played together as children, running through dreams as easily as air. We grew older and older in each other’s company, and grew closer by the year. She started to teach me what my master taught her, words and numbers and vague stories of what lay beyond. I was enraptured by her the moment that she taught me to trace shaking spells over pieces of parchment. We grew older together, older and older – feelings started to stir that we could not explain, and that my master was blind to. She continued teaching me what my master taught her, and I laughed at how easily it came. I, brutish creature, was learning what my master knew – I would go with them to the stars, and be made as high as him… I touched Miranda, she was happy at first. We guided each other to the sands, we started to explore. I went too far. She said stop – I kept tracing for just a moment, I had loved her since we were young and she was such a gift. Miranda screamed, my master was there. He hurt me, he hates me, he condemned me to darkness. No stars, just the island. I was foolish to believe anything more, I am bound to it until the moment I rot.”

There was the longest silence yet.

…He stared appalled, and quickly rose to his feet. Caliban watched him sadly, a creature with human eyes. He felt a little like gagging, and was too confused to work out the many levels of _why_.

“Miranda,” he muttered, and was disappointed to find that the unjust truth that he’d so firmly believed was laced with lies like poison in water, “do you regret it?”

“We were innocent, I tried to break it,” Caliban considered for a second, turned back to the silver ship – the set of his shoulders was unreadable, “regret is a word that we hadn’t reached yet, we never will now.”

He said goodbye to Caliban first, he left footsteps in the golden sand away from the creature with his head reeling and a heavy weight in his stomach.

 

\--

 

xix.

He said goodbye to Ariel next.

He’d wanted to ever since he’d discovered the thankful fact of his leaving, but had been entirely unsure how to accomplish it. Ariel was a creature of the air, a figment of the dreams wrapped around this whole planet. He did not move in logical ways, he could not be expected to do so – he was something beyond human, vague in a way that grated on his senses as much as it fascinated them. He was a creature beyond the normal realms of contact.

…And so, as such, he was rather pleased when that creature chose to bend to them for just once. Appeared around him when he was walking back through the forest, still reeling from the fact of Caliban.

“Oh,” he said, astounded by violet, and stopped in his tracks. Ariel was truly all around him - every facet of the world seemed to shine with that violet light, ripple like a lake just broken by the toss of a stone, “hello. I wasn’t expecting to see you, even though I really wanted to.”

There was silence, but that was customary. The world around him grew a touch more violet and he took it as an invitation – it was either that or lapse back into earlier life, where the dreams had choked him so surely with their presence that he’d felt his life force slowly bleeding away into the brute fact of them.

“I’m leaving,” he explained quickly, not wanting to play with Ariel – not wanting to play with anybody, really, for he’d never had much taste for games, “Prospero has created a ship for me, an absolutely beautiful thing of steel and speed and freedom writ on every inch.”

Silence remained, he had the odd sensation that it was fondly judging him.

“…Though you probably already knew that.”

The violet light grew a little firmer in the silence, something that he was just about smart enough to take as an answer.

“Sorry,” he coughed, and spluttered, and carried on. He felt awkward, but it was not the profound sort that haunted him with other people – he felt like he could cope, just about, for a proper goodbye deserved a reasonable amount of coping “…I just wanted to tell you, even if you do know and have known for a while. Because I really am going, and I really won’t be back, and-“

The violet remained intense, observing him. He’d never had so many conversations with an unresponsive thing before. It chilled him, but he found that he’d miss it – the universe outside was filled with too many contradictions, too many things that were passionately against others having their say.

“…Um, well,” he could put that feeling into words, just about. He took in a deep breath and managed his best smile – glanced all around before settling on an oddly familiar tree, the one where he’d first glimpsed Ariel hovering so very long ago, “it hasn’t been fun, but you’ve been one of the least objectionable parts of it. I won’t miss this planet, but I probably will end up missing you. You’ve been a constant in an inconstant world, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

…He was probably imagining it, but there seemed a faintly melancholy tint to the violet now.

He was used to melancholy tints, they coloured practically every part of him. There was no comment that you could make on them, nothing you could really say – he took a deep breath and stepped forwards again, unsure if there was really anything else he could do “…Farewell, then, Ariel-“

And the violet disappeared from around him, so suddenly that he almost tripped and went face down into the mulch. The world could be seen again, dreamy in shades of soft green and fading brown. He stared at it in shock for a long few moments, still balancing himself, and then spun quickly on his heel-

…To see.

He’d seen a man when he’d first arrived on the planet, a strange sort of man that was barely a man at all. Soft feathers had covered his skin, odd patterns had painted his face and there’d been a certain look in his eyes that’d whispered of anything but human. He had been more a bird, shoved into a suit of flesh and barely succeeding at operating it.

That man stood there now, smiling before him. Violet seemed to infuse every bit of him, making him most definitely a figment of the air that could blow away at any moment. His eyes were not human, but they were watching him with a kind fascination, “Henry Bolingbroke. Henry.”

…And he supposed that was enough.

He said goodbye to Ariel next, and for the first time the forest around him seemed like a welcome instead of a harsh attack.

 

\--

 

xx.

He said goodbye to Miranda last.

“You’re leaving?” She greeted him with a frown, a wrinkle of her innocent forehead as he emerged from the forest and made his way towards the hut, “this planet? Forever?”

She looked like she didn’t understand, from her place coiled on the ground right in front of the hut. She looked like a child, like the stereotypical innocent that they’d all been once upon a time, and he immediately felt guilty for stealing away yet another piece of innocence. Loss was never easy, it tended to flay you like a knife.

“I have to,” he sighed, still carrying the scars from his own flaying, and sat carefully down besides her. He was getting dirty, something that he would’ve approached with definite trepidation before the planet – now he just focused his attention on her and tried to look as dutiful as possible, “there are things that must be done, and there is nobody that can do them but me. I can’t do them from here, trapped so deeply in dreaming.”

“You could try-!” Miranda stared at his expression for a second, and then settled down – her wide eyes were already starting to narrow a little, ever eroded by the universe “…You couldn’t, but you could still ignore them.”

“They really aren’t the type of things that can be ignored,” he corrected gently, feeling a certain stirring of guilt deep in his chest. The universe outside was constantly calling to him, and he had the horrible feeling that Miranda had heard it as if it was for her, “without me everything will fall apart. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

“With you everything will fall apart.”

“That may be so,” he breathed through the truth, breathed through the guilt – kept his eyes on Miranda even though it killed him just slightly, one of the petty deaths that occur every single day, “and I may be unable to have that on my conscience either. But I still must go, I still must try even if it rips every bit of me apart.”

There was a long pause.

Miranda lifted her head, turned it sideways to him. She looked urgent and hurt, he knew that exact expression because he’d worn it himself so many times before, “I don’t want you to be ripped apart.”

He nodded slowly, agreeing with her wish. But... “We cannot change the things that must happen, Miranda.”

“But-!”

“I am not of this world, this world is not of me. It rejects me, poisons me with every second instead of grasping me to its bosom. I think that that might be because it senses that my path lies far away from here, that my inevitable destruction lays up and out and beyond the stars. It is something that must be advanced to. It is an obligation that I cannot shuck no matter how long and hard I try.”

Another silence.

…A stretching one. Miranda ducked her head, an odd expression of thought crawling over her face. He waited her out, rather startled by the pure truth that’d just crossed his tongue.

“Just as I am meant for this island,” she eventually muttered, and lifted her head again. There was a new understanding in her eyes, and he didn’t like it much. He felt like he had disturbed the sanctity of this place, something akin to throwing a stone in one of the old holy places, “I suppose that we all must do things, even if they taste terrible to us.”

He nodded, slowly. He swore that his fingers had dust on them, lingering from the metaphorical rock.

“…I’ll still miss you, though,” it was foolery, of course, but understanding was a thing that bled and he feared that he’d just introduced it to Miranda. There was a new light in her eyes, she leant towards him with a certain sad fascination that’d never seemed so terrible on anything else, “I don’t remember much of the universe outside, I suppose I was too young when my father brought me here. What is it like? Is it somewhat splendid?”

Somewhat splendid. Hah, a joke. Somewhat splendid – a stretching place that could produce things like Caliban but without excuses and in the suits of men, could produce truths that hurt like knives and expectations that bled like bloody cuts, could kill and kill and tear and tear and rip and rip until there was little left but the chill of what had to be done.

And oh, that chill…

“It’s… Somewhat,” but Miranda was still waiting for his answer, and so he forced a smile. He could lie, at least briefly. Lies were good, lies maintained a barrier between the universe and the people. He should’ve learned about lies a little better, really, “somewhat splendid, yes. There are stars and planets and many different types of people on those planets. There are many galaxies to travel, and these days you can hope between them in under a week. There are different cities, different systems, different ways of living that are all the same deep down. There are so many possibilities, so many things that you could do. And, if you open yourself up, you truly could be anything that you wanted.”

He said goodbye to Miranda last, sitting on the rough ground outside the hut and lying only slightly. For there was still possibility in the universe, tempting and shining bright – he’d just ended up with little of it.

 

\--

 

xxi.

There was still one left though, that’s how he remembers it later. A vital one, with a magical stuff clutched in his hand and the weight of years in his eyes. A one even more mysterious than the island, and tied into it so intrinsically that it was impossible to deny. A one that was waiting for him, when he arose from a fitful sleep and trailed down to his gleaming lifeline.

“You are certain?” he’d asked, the moment that he’d come close enough for words to carry through the air, “you must be certain, Henry, this is not a thing to take lightly.”

He remembers staring at his new ship, taking it in with worshipful eyes. He remembers the heat of the morning suns on his back, the rustle of those mysterious trees behind him. He remembers knowing… That he had no choice, that the island would reject him as surely as the stars would welcome him back into darkness, “I must do my duty. All of it, even if I shouldn’t. I don’t take the decision lightly, it’s the only thing that can be done.”

He remembers Prospero staring at him with oddly sad eyes, taking a step back from his creation and waving a resigned hand. He remembers understanding that the man knew the universe too, the distant compulsion of it that never allowed men like them to twitch from their path. He remembers taking a step forwards, running his hand along the gleaming side and knowing that it’d soon carry him away. He remembers Prospero still watching him, ever watching him in that inevitable way, “and there is nothing that I can do to change your mind, nothing that I can do to make you stay and ensure your happiness.”

He remembers it being more a statement of fact than a question. He remembers turning slowly, giving Prospero the most genuine smile that he could summon after absolutely everything. He remembers it actually _feeling_ genuine, a connection between two men who would plunge themselves into hell over and over again. He remembers… “I’ll miss you, oddly enough. Try to remain safe and as happy as you can. I have no doubt that you will, on this planet of wonders.”

He’d clambered into his cockpit after that, completed all the checks with a professionalism that came too easily to his surprised fingers. Prospero stood politely away underneath, lingered near the trees in a thoughtful sort of way. Whenever he glanced over the man had attempted a smile, his future miserable in his eyes.

He’d still waved, as he’d pulled away.

Back to Richard, back to his minions, back to his children, back to his father, back to Mary. Back to the ghosts of all the things that had happened, and all the things that would happen. Back to the universe, so dark and wild. Back to his obligations. His _Obligations_.

He still can’t remember, even years later, what he thought when he finally lifted off from the planet. And returned back to the dark as black stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gehayi in the 2013 Histories ficathon. This was not meant to get so long, but then the idea rather exploded and... yeah. The angry meeting of Henry and Prospero was certainly something that proved incredibly interesting to write!
> 
> Most visual cues on The Tempest side are taken from the 2013 Globe version, just as my visual image of Henry is still Rory Kinnear from The Hollow Crown version. Neither of these are necessary for reading the fic, but I did have them in mind as I was writing. This isn't based in any specific universe otherwise, but I was interested by the Space AU idea and so inserted as many planets as possible. Don't trust any of the science in this, I tried to be as accurate as I could but it's still probably a bad idea.


End file.
